


The Broken Sword

by hedda62



Series: Lion's Cub Series [2]
Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-22
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Single Combat."  Gregor Vorbarra pays a visit to Ekaterin Vorkosigan, in hopes that she can help him resolve his newly-acquired problem.  Warnings for angst, swearing, sexual references, violence, death (not of major series character), and Barrayaran plants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sun hung bright in the cloudless sky, flattening colors and perspective. Ekaterin put a hand to her forehead to block the light. The zipweed was looking splendid as always; its complement, the scrubwire, had improved after the latest supplement of native organic matter to the soil.

She strolled along the paths, enjoying the opportunity, so rare these days, to inspect her own garden. Well, not hers exactly. It had been a gift to the public of Vorbarr Sultana, and several of them were visiting on this autumn morning: looking at plants, or walking arm-in-arm ignoring them; she was glad either way. In another sense, it very much belonged to her and Miles, a garden of memories and significant events, and a symbol of... how they were Barrayar, she supposed.

Reaching the dark red mass of the skellytum, she frowned. It had not recovered well from its transplantation. Since it was three meters tall, and the very first plant she'd placed in the garden, she'd hoped to keep it where it was, but the damage had been too extensive. If only she'd diagnosed the mysterious greening up one side sooner -- but none of them, not the Vorkosigan household, nor ImpSec, nor the historians at Vorbarr Sultana University, had known about the secret cellar of the demolished mansion that had once stood on this site, until its alkaline remains had been discovered by the skellytum's questing roots. Digging to solve the mystery had weakened the plant further, and she'd had to have it moved. It would survive; it had survived so much already, and she was determined to give it every chance. But it was hard to watch it struggle.

She waved to the university students conducting a painstaking excavation of the cellar site, hoping to find historical treasures, nodded to the wife of a ministerial assistant Miles had befriended during a recent case, and to a vaguely familiar Vorish ensign, and, when no one was watching, bent over a bed of crabpatch to yank out a few of the seedling maple trees that still, years after the parent tree had been removed, continued to infest the garden of native plants.

"Oh! Lady Vorkosigan, there you are!" Ekaterin turned; it was Hannah, one of the maids, approaching in a rush. "Oh, milady! You're wanted at the house. It's" -- Hannah whispered, though no one was close enough to overhear them -- "it's the _Emperor_ come to visit."

"Yes, I see," Ekaterin said, hand over her forehead again, looking back toward Vorkosigan House. She hadn't heard the groundcar approach, but the extra milling figures around the gate declared the advent of Someone Important, and the Imperial livery on some of them confirmed it. "Calm down, Hannah. He's been here plenty of times before."

"Yes, milady, but he usually comes as Count Vorbarra, and brings the Countess. He's all alone today, and he had himself announced as the Emperor."

Curious phenomena, both the reaction to differing identities and the construing of "alone." Ekaterin looked at the guards spreading out around her house, and said, "Let's sneak in through the kitchens, Hannah. I'll have to change my clothes after playing in the dirt out here."

"Milady, he said to just come as you are, no reason to fuss," Hannah said, completely awed. "I'll just take your soiled gloves and--"

"Let's still go in through the kitchens. I promise, no fussing."

Ten minutes later, after a hasty hand-washing and hair-tidying under Ma Kosti's distracted eye -- she was already putting fit-for-the-Emperor tidbits on a tray -- Ekaterin walked into the library and found the ruler of three planets on the sofa reading to her two elder children a story about a horse lost in a forest, while Elizabeth worked at unbuckling his boots.

"Oh, Lizzie, stop it," she said, retrieving her youngster, and then, belatedly, "Hello, Gregor. Sorry; Miles has been letting her do that. He thinks she's going to be an engineer."

"It's fine. I'm used to it." He handed the viewer to Sasha. "How about you and Helen go with Armsman Rahula and show him what words you can read out of this? And Lizzie," he added, looking her very seriously in the eye, "I think your nurse" -- wringing her hands in the doorway -- "has a nap in mind for you. I want to have a talk with your mother."

It took considerably more than that to get the children packed off -- Sasha and Helen were expert at the last-minute delaying tactic -- and then the tray arrived. They talked about the upcoming birth of the Vorbarras' second daughter, and that of little Taura, and about her name-giver, while the coffee was poured and everything arranged by far more servants than Ekaterin had thought she had, and then finally Gregor cleared his throat in that His-Imperial-Majesty-Hates-To-Say-This-But way, and everyone vanished, the door clicking closed behind them.

"Oh, dear," Ekaterin said. "What a circus."

"No, it's perfect," said Gregor. "I love coming here; it's reassuring to know someone besides my own children thinks I'd rather be climbed on than bowed to. Plus," he added indistinctly around something in puff pastry, "Ma Kosti. Mm."

"Well, it's very nice to see you. And" -- she nodded her head in a gesture toward formality -- "to what do we owe the honor, Sire? Miles isn't home, but of course you know that. You just sent him to the Vorrutyer's District yesterday."

"Yes. A pretty little problem, though I think Olivia's solved it thoroughly already. But he'll enjoy being shown around and given dinner and a good gossip."

Ekaterin frowned. "Are you saying you got him out of the way on purpose?"

"Well... yes. That sounds rather improper, doesn't it, getting the husband out of town in order to call on his wife. But I wanted to talk to you." Gregor took a sip of coffee, evidently in no hurry to start talking. The ease of his interactions with children and servants was wearing off; he looked nervous.

"You must have had to clear a lot out of your schedule to visit. I could have--"

"As if you didn't have a schedule too," he chided her. "I'm the Emperor, after all; I should be able to cancel a few appointments. And... it's important. I think it may be the most important--" He broke off. "I don't know where to start."

"At the beginning? Or," she tried when he made a helpless gesture, "you could tell me why you came to me. You have advisors galore; you have Miles and the other Auditors; you have Laisa."

"Oh, Laisa knows. She's been wonderful about it, really. But I can't... it just feels..." He put the coffee cup down; Ekaterin thought his hand was shaking. "I needed someone... less involved. And someone who isn't going to rush off immediately and _do_ something."

"Hence not Miles. I see."

"There are other reasons for not Miles. Though he'll have to know eventually, I suppose."

"Who else does know?" _About the thing you can't seem to tell me yet._ "Besides Laisa."

"Guy Allegre, and inevitably a few other ImpSec staff have bits of it, but it's his job to plug any leaks there. And Aral, of course."

"Of course?"

"Sorry. I'm not explaining this very well. Aral called me yesterday morning. About a month ago, he met someone at a performance at the new Imperial Theatre... did you hear it's finished? Sounds like it came out splendidly... anyway, the director of a traveling theatre troupe. She maneuvered him into a dressing room and talked at him... made a try at seducing him too, from what I gather. I can just imagine."

Gregor seemed to go off in a reverie for a moment, long enough for Ekaterin to interrupt. "Gregor, what are you talking about? I can tell you're upset about something..."

"Or I wouldn't be so incoherent? Yes, I... it's just hard to know how to... did Miles ever tell you about Cavilo?"

"No, I don't think so. Who or what is that?"

"Who. Her." He made a gesture in front of his face, like wiping clean a slate, and took a breath. "I did something remarkably stupid when I was twenty-five, and ended up halfway across the galaxy, alone, and Miles found me, pretty much by accident. And -- it was complicated, but -- she captured us. Miles got thrown in the brig until she tried to murder him by proxy, which, him being Miles, saved Our Imperial Ass as well as his own. I was... not in the brig." He sighed. "She had this plan, you see. To become Empress."

"Oh," said Ekaterin. Gregor was known for his brevity and ability to summarize, but this account seemed unreasonably succinct. One thread, she could pull out easily enough. "Did she... seduce you?"

"I'm not sure. I mean, yes, in the usual sense, but since I knew right away what she was after... what she was like... it was just as much my pretense as hers. I had to keep it up for six days."

Ekaterin, already flustered, let out a snort, and then was horrified. Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she said, at the same second that Gregor burst out laughing.

"That's the other reason I like visiting here," he said when he recovered. "I don't have nearly enough people around who dare to even notice when I hand them a straight line like that. Thank goodness you're not Ivan; I can just imagine what he'd have done with it. Ekaterin," he said, leaning forward, all seriousness again. "Lady Vorkosigan. I have to be the Emperor here today, a little. Can you...?" He gestured her hands together, and surrounded them with his own. "Do you give your name's word, and swear by your allegiance to me, Gregor Vorbarra, that you will not divulge without permission anything I tell you here today?"

"I do, Sire," she said, without hesitation, but almost shivering as she felt the tension in his grasp. "By my duty to you and my word as Vorvayne and Vorkosigan." Gregor was covering all the bases; it was not traditional to ask a Vor woman to swear by her name (any of those she had in a lifetime) but he was good at both keeping and throwing out traditions simultaneously.

"Good," he said, releasing her. "That's over. Now" -- his taut intensity vanished -- "as my friend, please feel free to ignore the aura of power and, as your dignity allows, to make jokes about The Imperial Prick, or tell me I've been one as the case may be. All right?"

"All right," she said. "Um. Six days, you say?"

"It wasn't quite that... constant. She had other things to do, like running a mercenary company, and plotting, and killing people, and trying to kill other people... not a nice woman, you may have gathered. She didn't even do charm very well; her smile never got to her eyes. Beautiful eyes, though. Like blue diamonds. Hard." He cleared his throat. "I felt like two versions of myself, that week. One was aware, calculating, hoping to figure out a plan of escape or be rescued. The other was... willing to be swept off my feet, I guess. I had no trouble, um, performing with her. I suppose that's what it was, really, a performance. At least it helps to think of it that way."

"Yes," Ekaterin said. "I understand that." There had been days upon days, nights upon nights, with Tien. "But you're two people most of the time, aren't you? Or three, actually," she added, remembering Hannah's distinction.

"I just did that trick, didn't I?" he said, folding his hands to mimic their oath. "Yes. I told Miles, at the time, that I'd put aside my personal honor. In service to the Imperium, was the implication, not that I really believed it then. I hadn't figured out yet that Gregor-the-Emperor was a real person too."

"I think it's all you, really. Not different people; I misspoke. Different aspects, perhaps."

Gregor nodded. "Sharing a body. Which was pretty heavily in use that week. I had her convinced; I guess that was the Emperor's job just then. And Gregor's." He smiled sadly. "I think Miles was having more fun. If not nearly as many orgasms."

Ekaterin managed not to blush, but whatever comment the cool and forthright Imperial Confidante should have come up with, it was out of her grasp. Cordelia or Laisa would have done much better. "Oh?" she said, inadequately.

Gregor didn't seem to notice her discomfort. "It's one of the few things -- there are two I can think of -- for which I actually owe Cavilo. Finding out that I was good at my job. You'd think that would have been demeaning, given the circumstances, but I discovered that the skills carried over pretty well. The less carnal of them, I mean."

"What was the other thing?"

"Point of comparison. It's how I knew Laisa was for real. That I didn't have to worry she was after my power and my money and not me, myself. I knew what that looked like." He drank some coffee with a pensive air. "I gather it still looks much the same."

"So it was Cavilo that Aral spoke with at the theatre?"

"Oh yes. In all her glory."

"And... what? Was she trying to blackmail you? Through him?"

"Not... exactly."

"It was a long time ago, after all. And before you were married."

"Yes, and it wasn't by any means the most embarrassing part of that adventure. And though she was disappointed in becoming Empress, she did pretty well out of the caper, financially. ImpSec kept an eye on her afterwards, when they could catch up with her -- a guarded but somewhat admiring eye, if I'm reading Guy right. She's still acquisitive, still unscrupulous, possibly a little wiser. The murder of the former director of the Caucasus Players remains unsolved."

Gregor's tone had become increasingly chipper and brittle as he spoke. It wasn't like Miles's babbling -- he tended to become desperately engaging -- but it unsuccessfully masked the same sort of anxiety. "So, why was she talking to Aral?" Ekaterin said, emphasizing each word rather as though questioning Sasha or Helen about the latest mysterious breakage. "What did she want?"

Gregor put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Ekaterin waited, and in a moment he looked up again, propping his chin on steepled fingers, and said, "She wanted to tell me I have a son."

Ekaterin wasted not a second of _well, of course you do; two in fact_ misunderstanding; it was as if the whole heavy reality of the situation thudded down on her shoulders at once. It was already bowing Gregor's, and she realized that he'd been burdened all along, that the weight had been crushing him through his reading to Helen and Sasha, his tolerance of servant chaos and budding-engineer boot-fiddling, had been implicit in his tense smiles and his unaccustomed frankness and his sentences that trailed off in the middle. His whole being, Emperor and Gregor in one, was radiating Terrible Insurmountable Problem, and much as she wanted to solve it, she wanted to comfort him more. Before she knew what she was doing, she was on the sofa with her arms around him, as though he'd been a child wailing from a fall.

She had a brief vision of the first time she'd been shown into Gregor's office, with Nikki, to talk about the rumors surrounding Tien's death. She'd felt awed and nervous at being in The Presence, with barely any energy to spare to be annoyed with Miles for not telling her who he'd arranged to have them meet; at least Uncle Vorthys had given her the heads-up before they arrived. But very soon, she'd become... not exactly comfortable, but certain she was in good hands -- and they were Gregor's hands, not the Emperor's. It had helped that both Miles and Uncle Vorthys had made their confidence clear, but it was mostly Gregor himself, his seriousness, his intensity, his... it had been almost a paternal aura, oddly, since Gregor hadn't yet had any children. That he knew about, oh dear. Father of his empire, she supposed. The Emperor, integral with the man. And here she was, patting him on the head.

"Now," she said -- he was submitting to her impromptu embrace more readily than she'd expected, and she didn't want him breaking down -- "tell me all about it. I need data, dammit."

He grinned a little at her imitation of Miles, hugged her back for a second, and let go. Reaching for the coffeepot, he freshened his cup -- she loved men who poured their own coffee without a thought -- and took a sip. "He'd be about Nikki's age," he said, and paused.

"Ah."

Gregor's lip curled. "That's not why I'm here," he said. "Neither _help, a teenage boy_ nor _product of first unsuccessful relationship_. The circumstances are very different, and I know that." She nodded, and he went on, "He seems to be calling himself Serg. Which, aside from being effrontery of the first order, means either a shallow knowledge of Barrayaran history or... something else."

Ekaterin had been shocked to learn that one of her brothers' childhood heroes had been a sadist and pervert... and that it hadn't got out. Miles had always been reticent on the subject, and then had explained it all to her at the time of little Crown Prince Xav's birth. In fact he'd used much the same language she and Gregor had today: Serg had been two people. Not in the same way as Gregor, though; Serg had been his own, mad self, and others around him had created the hero from a prince-shaped outline and a few tatters of gold cloth.

"You said he's calling himself that. Did she name him Serg?"

"Aral says no. He said... let me back up. Cavilo came to Aral hoping he'd inform me of the boy's existence; she can't really have thought I'd make him my heir, but she wanted something, some gesture of acknowledgment perhaps. Or that was the first story. Aral countered her at every turn, and she apparently gave up and told him it was all a lie and to please go away and not bother her." Gregor took a deep breath. "And then he ran into Serg in the hallway, and... it seems he looks like me. A great deal. So much so that Aral wondered if he was my clone instead of my son. And then he wondered if he was seeing things. He'd wanted to believe Cavilo when she said she'd made the story up, but on the other hand it was a powerful mental image and he thought he might have projected it. Serg looks Barrayaran, but..."

"It's possible he's someone else's son? I mean, given Cavilo's, um, behavior..."

"She dumped another lover to get into bed with me, and she would have slept with Miles too if--" Gregor stopped. "He was smarter than me. And she was very... short. Did I tell you that? Anyway" -- he got over his fluster and went on more coherently -- "Aral was on the comm to Guy Allegre right away, and Guy told him not to blab to anyone, especially me, and ImpSec would check it out. They managed to acquire a genetic sample somehow, compared it to mine, and... it matches up in the right proportions, I guess. He's my son. Not a clone. He just doesn't take after his mother. At least physically."

"But..." Ekaterin had been trying to avoid imagining the scenario, but realities kept edging in. "Look... Nikki was a body birth. When Tien and I decided to conceive, I had to have my implant removed, and then... it took a few months."

Gregor shrugged. "Six days. I know. Laisa says it's possible, though, if she was using -- and then not using -- a different sort of contraception. She reminds me, dryly, that Barrayar went from sheep-gut sheaths to the galactic standard overnight, missing quite a lot along the way. Or Cavilo could have taken a semen sample, or anything else I'd left behind, and had an embryo made that way. It doesn't matter much; he exists."

"So... you said a month ago..."

"Guy asked Aral to keep it quiet. Aral debated with himself, pretty furiously I think -- there was that heart scare a couple of weeks ago--"

Ekaterin gasped. "Yes. You mean that was because of--"

Gregor nodded, looking even more woebegone. "It's my fault. Entirely."

"It is not your fault." She shook him by the shoulder. "But he did tell you."

"He did. Apparently it's exactly what Cavilo said would happen, as Aral explained to me ruefully. He finally told Guy no, I don't care about implications security or otherwise, in no way will I keep this from Gregor, and he called me. And then Guy called me too."

"But no one else knows. Not Cordelia?"

"Well, Aral said he hadn't told her. But I bet she's got it out of him by now. I'm expecting to hear from her any day. And then Miles will find out, and Ivan, and Henri, and..." He put his face in his hands again. "I need to know what's really going on, before this becomes general public knowledge."

"I think you're exaggerating. Surely a few of us can keep a secret. I made my oath, and I won't tell even Miles unless you ask me to. Though it would be better if _you_ told him, in that case."

"Yes, but he'll..." Gregor looked up. "He never has that moment, does he? Not the what-do-I-do-next moment, he has those, but the I-wish-I-could-do-nothing moment. When you just want it all to go away. A wise woman said to him" -- Miles's tones, perfectly -- "you just go on. Well, sometimes I can't. Sometimes I just want to sit down and let the world happen around me, and not touch any of it. To have no influence, no weight." He pulled at his hair. "Damn it all. Why didn't I tell her... I don't know, that Barrayaran emperors had to stay virginal until marriage."

Ekaterin wanted to hug him again, but this time he really would break down. She gave him a curt little laugh instead, and said, "You're hardly the first emperor to scatter by-blows about."

Gregor groaned. "There had better not be _more_ of them. And I didn't... scatter. I barely even tossed."

"I'm joking. She stole this child from you, it seems to me. You didn't have much of a choice in creating him."

"Yes, but that's not the point." He sat up, looking grim. "I want to meet him. That's my 'just go on.' And then we'll... see what happens."

Ekaterin checked _are you sure that's a good idea?_ Bound to trigger defensiveness. "What do you know about this boy?" she asked more cautiously.

The twist in Gregor's mouth told her what was coming: not the details, but the essential disaster of it. "He may have been raised on Eta Ceta. ImpSec is still following some leads there; Aral thinks that part of Cavilo's story was a lie. He has also likely visited Jackson's Whole, and has certainly spent some time on Earth. For his age, he's extraordinarily accomplished in at minimum one style of sword fighting, or at least the stage combat version thereof. Again, facts still to be established. He's a decent actor, fit and apparently healthy, and Aral thinks he has cruel eyes. And he's good at disappearing; no one knows where he is just now."

"Oh, dear."

"Oh shit, is more like it. My son." Gregor sounded oddly... satisfied by the bitter declaration.

"He's not just _your_ son. He's not, by any normal reckoning, your son at all, except that he has some of your genes." Which, considering Prince Serg... well, yes. Do consider him. "Upbringing makes a difference; you should know that. Besides, it's an incomplete portrait. Who knows what he's really like?"

"That's why I want to meet him. But being the Emperor doesn't mean I get my way in matters like this. If there are any other matters like this. One hopes not."

"There was Mark."

"True. But Mark is the younger son, and it was Cordelia and Aral deciding to call him that" -- Gregor's tone made it clear that Cordelia and Aral could do anything they wanted and no one would get in _their_ way -- "and there was the whole business with Miles being dead, and... it was different."

"Of course. Every situation is different; you don't get perfect echoes. Just like Nikki coming out of a loving marriage that went bad, and Serg out of..."

"Six days of sweaty sex in a tiny little spaceship cabin, yes. Mark gives me a precedent for what will be an entirely new decision, is that what you're saying? Thanks."

"Well, what do you want then, Gregor?" she said, letting herself be irritated by him. "Why are you here? Are you hoping I'll talk you into defying your advisors, or talk you out of it? Or did you just want my ears?"

Gregor sat back, surprised, and regarded her in a way she recognized; she felt, under his eye, not only that she had his full attention, but that she existed more solidly and significantly than she'd previously been aware. This time, she knew she'd ripped him away from his own tortured imaginings, but the gaze was no less flattering and in fact made her sure she'd distracted him to the good.

"It helps to say it all out loud," he told her, "and I appreciate your listening to me, but I do need more than that. Your salient characteristic, in my opinion" -- clearly the personal, not the Imperial opinion -- "is prudence: you consider with care, and do the right thing most of the time. And yet, you can be imprudent when there's need... to the greater good of Barrayar, I need not add. I think that's what I require right now; rather than, say, Miles's particular imbalanced contradiction of decision and paralysis."

"You're pretty prudent yourself."

"Except when I'm not. Yes. Then what I need is a mirror, but one with its own strongly felt opinions, not afraid to tell me... that the Emperor has no clothes, or is otherwise a fool."

"I don't think you're that. You said 'require.' Is that a 'request and require'?"

He shook his head. "Not unless you want it to be. I don't think I can compel an honest opinion, anyway. I've tried; it never works."

"All right." She was still sitting close beside him on the sofa. The sun had risen higher outside, which paradoxically made this room darker: not so dark that she couldn't see his face if she moved back to her chair. But she stayed where she was: closeness, and the potential of touch, were important. "I'm your mirror, then. Not because I share with you a habit of watchfulness and slow choices, but because I'm one of your subjects, and therefore I am part of you, the you that is the Imperium personified. No" -- she held up a hand to forestall his objection -- "you can be Gregor again in a minute. Be the Emperor. Is meeting with this young man, assuming you can find him, to the good of the Empire? Would acknowledging him as your son be good, Imperially speaking?"

Gregor sighed. "It depends," he said. "No, wait, give me a chance. I'm being rational here. It depends entirely on him. I don't know yet what he wants. Truth tends to emerge, given time -- I think, for example, that there are fewer people on this planet who regard my father as a great hero, these days -- and if we do nothing decisive, this truth will get out. So it's perhaps better that I make a gesture, and a declaration, now; unless Serg is after my throne, in which case it sounds like a really bad idea."

"ImpSec should be able to help you there. His actions will illustrate his motivations." Gregor shrugged, then nodded. "If his intents are covetous and disruptive," she went on, "what then?"

"He'd have to actually _do_ something toward that goal, but then..." Gregor drew a finger across his throat. "We wouldn't have any choice."

"The Imperial we?"

"All of Us, yes." His voice was taut with pain, but an ironic tinge lingered. "It would be quite a shouting match in here."

"And what would Gregor be shouting?"

He closed his eyes and his head went back a little, baring his throat; Ekaterin realized then that he'd drawn the symbol of judicial murder on his own body, instead of, say, miming a nerve disruptor. He swallowed, hard.

"Oh, my son," he said: not a shout but a whisper.

After a moment he bowed his head, not opening his eyes. "When I met her," he said, clearly meaning Cavilo, "I was running away. I'd been at a conference on Komarr; I'd found out some things about my father; and I had too much to drink. So I climbed off my balcony -- almost took a lethal dive, but some absurd sense of self-preservation kicked in -- and I headed off-planet. I expect I was still dragging suicidal impulses when she took me to bed." His eyes opened and he lifted his hands off his knees, staring at them as if he'd never seen them before. "There is something about sex that makes you look forward to tomorrow, you know? Even if you're dreading it at the same time."

"Yes, I know. I know about Komarran balconies, too." Though _she_ hadn't offered to throw herself off one. "And survival."

"I bet you do." He gave her a potent glance. "Those domes," he said, "don't tell Laisa, but I really hated them. Barrayar... has its faults, but..."

"The open sky. Real air. Plants."

"Plants, yes." Gregor squared his shoulders. "So, enough about me; how are _you?_ " he said.

Ekaterin laughed, a half-hysterical release of energy. "Busy," she said. "As usual. Playing all my different roles."

Gregor shook his head. "You integrate very well. Better than I do, apparently. I'm sorry I landed another task on you."

"No, it's... good, actually. Being called on to serve the Emperor is the best excuse to ignore other responsibilities."

"Ah. As Miles has discovered all too well?"

She hesitated, but in this matter Gregor's insight was excellent. "It would be worse if he had no faith in my competence. I'm glad he trusts me."

"He had damn well better trust you. Find someone you trust, and delegate, all right? And let me know if I'm leaning on him too hard. On either of you."

"I will. Thank you." She paused, but Gregor said nothing else. "That was rather abrupt," she ventured.

"Mm?"

"I mean... you hadn't decided..."

"There isn't much point going on, since I have no idea what to do. Damn!" he said, looking as though he wanted to punch something, and not doing it. "I thought... I thought everything was going so well; that my world was settled. My personal world, I mean; crises of state come and go, but I have Laisa and the children, and my friends, and... I suppose any of you could die at any moment, but I would have _had_ you, and... I was good with myself, had stopped wondering if this was the year Mad Yuri's genes would triumph, finally sleeping well... except for midnight feedings and teething pains and goodness knows we're lucky enough to treat those like an indulgence and let the nurse step in when needed. And really the Imperium is in pretty good shape altogether. Gregor the Generally Fortunate." He took a breath. "And now this. Why? Why this particular sin, coming back to haunt me?"

"Do you have a long list of others?"

"Actually... no. I've done penance for quite a few. Been forgiven for some. This one... I'd mostly forgotten about. I suppose that answers my question. In a cosmic sense. Doesn't help much."

There was something unanswered about his question, though; something Ekaterin couldn't quite grasp. "Well," she said, "when I'm feeling boxed in like that, I try to go outside. Do you think that would help? I was doing a garden walk when you arrived, noting things to be fixed."

"That sounds... perfectly lovely," said Gregor, and then his eye fell on the table. "Can we take Ma Kosti's treats? She might feel insulted if we left them here."

They bundled them into a napkin, and stepped directly out the French doors into the house's back garden, to avoid the complications of children. Gregor told the Armsman waiting there of their intentions, and he muttered into his wristcom. By the time they arrived at the public garden, it was far less public; guards stood at every entrance point and visitors were being escorted out, though Ekaterin could still see activity around the cellar dig. Gregor's Armsmen would obviously have liked to surround their master at close hand, but he waved them back to perimeter guarding, and strolled on almost happily, snacking and listening to Ekaterin point out botanical curiosities.

"And here are more of those bothersome maple trees," she said, stopping at the crabpatch bed again. "I've thought maybe we should let one grow, since this is the Vorkosigan garden after all, but then we'd have even more seedlings. And they are Earth imports as much as the Vorkosigans ultimately are. This is supposed to be Barrayar, if an arranged gardeny version of it. Gardens aren't ever the real world. But they are real." She reached down and pulled out a little tree. "That feeling you described," she said, "the one where you don't want to make any decisions, to be weightless in the world? I know that one. When I feel that way, I try to come out here and weed. You say to yourself, well, I can't address the bigger stuff right now, but I can pull out this plant that doesn't belong" -- she tugged -- "and that one" -- again -- "and one more. And pretty soon, the other things start making sense. Want to try?"

Gregor looked around for a place to put the napkin with the remaining pastries; she took it from him and pocketed it, and he squatted down. "There," he said, pulling out a creeping vine she pointed to. "And a start on the delegation problem I mentioned too, hm?"

She laughed, wondering at the world she'd found herself in, where the Emperor did her weeding. "So back to your trouble," she said between yanks. "I'm thinking -- it's just come clear to me -- that you shouldn't just be asking why this is happening, but why _now_. Why didn't Cavilo make her appeal when Serg was younger, before you were married and had your own family?"

"Mm. She apparently didn't have him when he was younger. Remember I said she'd claimed he was brought up by the Cetagandans? Aral's doubtful either of them could have escaped, though I'm not so sure. But if she's not lying, it was just three years ago she got Serg back."

"And if she is lying... why? If she's trying to make you feel guilty for conceiving him -- which is ridiculous but nevertheless effective -- then you'd feel worse if she claimed to have brought him up all alone. There's no power of pathos in saying the Cetagandans raised him. It's more like a threat." She paused, her hand on a sprig of ivy. "Maybe it was a threat."

"You mean he's a Cetagandan weapon? Or... but I'm even less likely to declare him my heir if he's Ceta-raised than if she raised him. And she's not stupid. Unfocused and a bit crazy perhaps, but not stupid."

"Then maybe that's not what she was after." Gregor looked at her, shook his head, and yanked out the last of the maple seedlings. "Thank you," Ekaterin said; she started to rise and then spotted... what was that? Chuffweed? She certainly hadn't planted that; Miles was horribly allergic to it, and it wasn't pleasant for anyone else to encounter either. She pulled it out with caution and put it in her pocket for later identification. "Let's walk again," she said.

Gregor led the way, as if drawn, to the skellytum; it was certainly, to the untrained eye, the most impressive thing in the garden. "My," he said, "this has grown. Though it looks a little... oh, that's right, Miles said you had to move it. Yes: the cellar. How's that going?"

"Want to see? I haven't had a chance to look at the excavation in more than a week." They strolled over, ducking under the cautionary tape that marked the site. No one was working above ground now; they peered down into the hole and, beyond the ladder, could see only a pair of legs sticking out from some no-doubt fascinating corner. "Hello," Ekaterin called.

"Good morning," said a voice behind them. "Interested in venturing below?"

She turned. The young man was dressed in casual clothes, appropriate for digging: not a student she'd met before, but familiar. She'd seen him dressed differently... in uniform. The ensign she'd nodded to on the path earlier, yes. But that wasn't it...

She looked at Gregor; he was staring, fascinated. And then, she knew where she'd seen that face before, or one very like it: in the vids and portraits of her Emperor, just prior to emerging from his Regency to become leader in his own right.

The boy lifted the edge of his tunic to show that he was armed: the hilt of a knife, decoratively carved, no doubt with a wicked blade and a swift, trained hand to wield it. He met Gregor's eyes again, and smiled.

"Hello, Da," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

_My son._

Gregor could see how Aral had known immediately. It was not quite his own face looking back at him -- neither the mirror version nor the one in the old vids -- but the echo was startling. Differences in the sculpting showed here and there, as though an artist had chosen to make improvements to a portrait, and the eyes were neither his own hazel nor Cavilo's stunning blue, but walnut brown, a shade that should have been warm and welcoming. And wasn't.

He did not return Serg's greeting, not that the boy seemed to care. "Now," he went on, "I will help Lady Vorkosigan here down the ladder, and you'll follow. If your men move toward us, you will signal them, without a hint of warning, to stay where they are. Otherwise, no hand movements, no communications, and you'll do as I say or she gets my knife in her back. You are both very curious to see what they've found in the cellar."

He took Ekaterin's arm with gracious poise, using his right hand; the left hovered in readiness by the knife hilt. Gregor's own left hand, the one he signed his name with, twitched; apparently this was another of the genetic traits with which he'd gifted Serg. An advantage for a swordsman, if employed correctly; but he might well be trained to use both hands. It would certainly make staging theatrical fights easier if he could play right-handed.

Ekaterin reached the ladder, turned and felt for the top rung with her foot. If Serg bent to help her down, Gregor thought he might be able to push him over without causing her to fall. But instead, the boy grabbed the plank at the edge of the hole and swung himself nimbly around her body, catching the ladder with his feet and one hand, framing her from behind, the knife at ready.

Ekaterin looked up at Gregor in mute appeal; he could read her as though she'd shouted. Not _please follow me; don't leave me alone_ : that wasn't Vor enough for her. She was telling him to run, to save himself, to not mind what happened to her as long as he survived. He lifted his eyebrows at her, and stepped closer to the ladder, waiting his turn. She bit her lip.

 _No, milady. I will not do that to you, and I certainly won't do it to Miles. And besides,_ Gregor admitted to himself, _I'm curious. Fatally, it may be, but... let's see what happens._

He didn't dare turn to look toward his men; he kept his eyes focused downward as he descended the ladder. "Very good," said Serg. "Now, you will give me any communications devices you have on your person. I think you carry no weapons, true?" Gregor nodded, displayed his empty pockets and belt, then removed the audiocom-pin from his lapel and handed it over; Serg crushed it under his heel on the hard earth. He did not ask Ekaterin the same questions, and in fact had let go of her, though blocking her way to the ladder; she glanced around wildly, and then rushed to the corner where they'd seen the student's legs. Serg didn't stop her, just looked on in apparent amusement as she dragged out the body. The throat was cut.

 _No. Not that. You didn't--_

"There are two more over there," Serg said, pointing. "Females. I'm sorry that had to happen. I'd never killed a woman before. Unpleasant." He looked at Gregor, perhaps challenging him to agree.

"I wouldn't know," he said. _And if you think you have thus outmatched your father, so be it._ "We do, however, have serious penalties on this planet for murder." His breath was coming short, but he managed to get the words out coolly enough.

"Self-defense, surely. They threatened to call the guards."

"That's an interesting definition of self-defense," Gregor said, stalling for time. "I mean, I do see your point; this was a convenient hole and you needed to hide in it. As, thanks to your mother, you couldn't approach me directly. But perhaps now--"

"Perhaps now we'd better be going. No, not up the ladder. Your Armsmen will be investigating any minute now, and I don't think Lady Vorkosigan would survive that. This way."

He waved them into the darkness behind the ladder, flicking on the switch of a lantern. Gregor forced himself to look at the bodies, briefly illuminated; they'd been young and beautiful and probably dedicated to their work, and he was responsible for their deaths.

"Move that," Serg said, indicating a sheet of metal which, when Gregor heaved it aside, proved to conceal the entrance to a stone tunnel. Serg didn't bother to replace the improvised door, which meant he didn't care about being followed; did he think ImpSec would be so far behind them? And quickly down after them, since Ekaterin had dragged that body into plain sight. Serg held the lantern up and pushed Ekaterin and Gregor forward into the dark.

The tunnel soon widened into what looked like a storeroom; wooden crates were piled along the walls. "Rusted weapons," Serg reported, "spoiled food, and very bad wine. A hideaway rather than a smuggler's cache, that's the University's opinion thus far. The tunnel continues, heading toward the cellars of Vorkosigan House, though it never actually gets there. We're going the other way."

He pointed them toward a cleared space between two crate piles. Gregor let Ekaterin go first, and then, faking a step forward, stepped back instead onto Serg's foot. He twisted, reaching for the knife hand; caught it, and then the lantern slammed into the side of his head. Everything went blacker than it had been, with lightning streaks, and then, slowly, his vision cleared. His head... hurt like hell. He groaned.

"That was rather stupid," said Serg, flicking the lantern back on, "but we'll call it brave, won't we, Da? Lady Vorkosigan," he called; Ekaterin had made a dive into the dark while Serg was distracted, and he could hear her making noises... attempting to pry up the lid of a packing case, it sounded like. Looking for weapons; she'd probably find soup instead. "Come back to me, milady, or I'll be forced to cut your Emperor's throat. Much as it would inconvenience me."

"Don't," said Gregor; of course it did no good, and she was back. They all stepped forward together until they reached a solid wall. Serg murmured, counting, and then reached over Gregor's shoulder to slide one of the stones back and sideways, revealing a panel of colored squares.

He pressed buttons, a long sequence of them that Gregor failed to memorize, his vision still fading into sparks and patches. A latch clicked and, holding Ekaterin, Serg stepped forward to open a door in the wall. Covering the panel so it became stone wall again, he pushed them through the door and shut it behind them.

"That will puzzle your Security men," he said smugly, motioning them forward into a smooth-walled, far newer passageway. _True. For a little while. But not forever._ It was Gregor's job now to stay alive and collect as much information as he could.

"You didn't build that access door," he said. "Or this tunnel."

"Certainly not," said Serg in an irritating we-have-minions-for-that tone... or maybe that was Gregor projecting his own youthful errors, long ago stamped out by Cordelia.

"You've been here less than a month. And this doesn't date from whenever that cellar was built."

"Occupation period. So the historians say."

"Therefore, to have found it, you either have astounding luck, or colleagues."

Serg turned and grinned. "How about both?" he said. "We're under the street now, if you're curious. Here," he shone the light forward to show their tunnelway ending in a wall with a hinged panel, "we enter the sewers. Like rats."

The next kilometer or so -- Gregor tried to keep track of paces and turns, but gave up when his calculations had them going in circles -- was not pleasant, what with the cold and damp, the mess underfoot, and his continuing headache, though it did provide him with a informative new view of Vorbarr Sultana's aging infrastructure. Serg led the way, having apparently decided that they weren't going to run off, and Gregor followed in tacit agreement that it would be folly. He had already, helping Ekaterin through the panel, put a hopeful hand on her ankle; she'd given him a rueful look. _Alas, no Vorfemme knife in my gardening boot._ These sorry modern times of peace: his grandfather Ezar would not have ventured out of the Residence without a hidden weapon on his person, Armsmen or no.

 _Luck and colleagues,_ said the echoing thump and squelch of Gregor's feet; he tried not to think of insurrection, and street battles, and of Laisa and the children.

Finally they reached another wall panel, like a dozen they'd already passed as far as he could tell, but Serg let out a satisfied "Ha" and pushed it open, gesturing them through.

The little cell they entered was lit and scantily furnished; Gregor had time to observe a heavy door and a ventilation grid in the opposite wall, and then a small figure in black rushed at him. His hands went up in defense, but his attacker ducked underneath, grabbed his shoulders and... kissed him. With passion, and a choking miasma of spicy perfume.

He pried her off, holding her to arm's length, whereupon she seized his hands as if he'd given her a greeting of love and welcome. "Oh, Greg, darling," she said. "You've come to rescue me."

Ekaterin laughed, practically the first sound she'd made since they entered the cellar, and clearly an involuntary release of tension; she'd had all the same unbearable scenarios in her mind during that long walk. "Cavilo, I presume?" she said.

"Who's that?" Cavilo said suspiciously. "Serg..."

"I had to bring her," said Serg, slipping forward next to Ekaterin. "It's Lady Vorkosigan. Miles's wife," he clarified with an anticipatory sneer.

"Yes," said Cavilo, staring at Ekaterin with interest, "I'd heard the vile dwarf found a mate at last. You have my pity."

"I have no need of it," Ekaterin said, adding under her breath, "Vile dwarf yourself."

Cavilo ignored her, turning back to Gregor with her most radiant smile. He took a good look at her. She'd changed her hair: no longer blonde and clipped short, but dark with a little gray in it, thick and long enough for a man's fingers to tangle in. Her skin showed the effects of aging, but was still largely unwrinkled and taut over an amazing bone structure. And the eyes hadn't changed. Not quite the young man's dream she'd been, but... he'd lied, sort of, in telling Ekaterin he'd forgotten. Waking, yes; but now and then, drowsing heavily when the sleepless nights of some crisis had ended, he'd dream of her. It usually ended badly, but he'd still wake aroused, turning to Laisa with need and a heavy sense of guilt.

"Why are we here?" he said to her, not sure if it was a request for information or an existential cry for help.

"Ask your son," she said. "He's the one who brought you." Gregor glanced at Serg, but Cavilo went on anyway, "It's quite obvious. He wants to be Emperor."

"That's a very simplistic--" Serg began.

"The older you get," she snapped back, "the more you realize things can be said simply. There's" -- she waved a hand -- "some complicated plot, with contingencies and conspiracies, but it all comes down to the one ambition. It may work, too. He's very clever. As we might have expected," she added with a sly smile.

"So... what did you mean, I've come to rescue you?" Gregor said.

"From _him,_ " she said, nodding toward Serg. "He has me a prisoner here."

"Oh yes," said her son, "and what would you get up to if I set you loose on Barrayar? No thank you."

She tossed her head. "I have some tact."

"And where are you keeping it?" Serg took a step forward, mimicking her hip-shifting, shoulders-back stance, and put two fingers down what seemed for a second to be a cleavage as magnificent as hers. "Here, where you tried to lead Ancient Aral Vorkosigan's nose? I told you there was no point to that performance. Either of them."

"They got you here."

"It would have been _easier_ if--"

"No," she said. "Not to Barrayar. Not to this stupid little room. To _here_. With him. Look at him. Look at your father." Serg, obediently, focused his attention on Gregor. "He wants you," she said. Serg snorted. "Don't be crude," Cavilo went on. "I don't mean fucking. I know what _that_ looks like, don't I, Greg darling? But afterwards, you had another look; I was too innocent to understand what it meant, until later. It said, I know what you're up to, I know you're a nasty mess reeking of falsehood, and I want you anyway. I want you to be real." She traced a line down Gregor's cheek and along his lower lip. "It's a very sad expression, when you know what it's saying. Like an actor in a play, who doesn't want to take off his costume."

"Oh?" said Serg. "So, Da, is she right? Do you want me?"

The tone was flippant, but Gregor read the words as honest inquiry. And he couldn't answer. It would have been a long answer; perhaps he wasn't yet old enough for Cavilo's claimed simplicity. But he was afraid his eyes were telling Serg all he needed to know; he might as well say that one, simple word. He might as well answer...

"Yes," said Ekaterin. Three heads swiveled in unison, a family challenging an interloper. "Yes, he does."

"Well," said Serg after a beat of silence, "perhaps you would know, at that. You two seem to be quite close. I saw you holding hands in the sewers." Gregor had, in fact, taken her hand for a short while, sensing that she might be about to panic... or that he might be... and the touch had been reassuring. But quite innocent. "So, Lady Vorkosigan," Serg said, moving behind her and drawing his knife, "tell us what the Emperor thinks of his new-discovered son."

Ekaterin was silent; the knife lifted to her throat. "He... he wanted to meet you," she said. The knife did a little impatient dance beneath her chin, a sharp, speaking rhythm of persuasion. It was a beautiful knife, Gregor noted, seeing it clearly for the first time: some Earth antique, perhaps, with a watered-silk steel blade and the hilt delicately carved. "We've been trying to draw your attention," Ekaterin went on; she might be lying for herself, but Gregor recognized, abruptly, that she was telling the truth about him. "That's why we were in the garden. He wanted you to make a move."

"In front of all his Armsmen and half of ImpSec. Likely," said Serg.

"No! He wanted to see you alone. We... we wanted to see you. We're having an affair." _What? What..._ "We're madly in love. Planning to run away with each other." She threw Gregor a sideways glance: _please, back me up..._

"Yes," he said. "We know it's very wrong, but we just can't help ourselves." _Ekaterin, what are you doing? Are you... being Miles?_ A vivid recollection seized him, Miles on the comm from the _Ariel_ , gibbering insanely at Cavilo and somehow managing to half-persuade her that he was a better route to the Imperium than Gregor himself. He looked at Ekaterin, calm and collected even with a knife to her throat. _Don't,_ he said silently. _It will never work... will it?_

"So," she told Serg, "you're a very welcome... happenstance. Gregor was going to leave the throne to his elder son, with my husband as Regent" -- _as if Laisa would allow that,_ Gregor thought, but it was plausible if you didn't know her -- "but that could create chaos on Barrayar" -- _oh yes, really?_ \-- "and it would be much better to have an heir old enough to rule on his own. If you'll just let us escape... somewhere far away..."

 _Somewhere Komarr-based ImpSec forces couldn't catch us, presumably._ What did Serg have planned for the other two planets of the Empire, assuming he had forces in place to take the Barrayaran capital? But... he couldn't possibly have enough co-conspirators to do even that. He must be relying entirely on Gregor's word to make him... what? The jump directly to Emperor that Ekaterin was offering was probably higher than he'd been planning for. Heirs could be created, and had committed patricide before, but, as Cavilo had said, it was so obvious. And Gregor was not, by himself, the full force of Barrayaran government.

He let his musings go, and tried to back Ekaterin up further. "Let Laisa and the children escape as well," he said. "We" -- Imperial We, not the truant couple -- "do require that. She will return happily to Komarr and not trouble you." _Like hell she will._ "Miles will be devastated, poor thing, but just... lock him in an asylum somewhere. You will find the transfer of power smooth enough, with my authorization."

Somewhere, deep in ImpSec's most secret files, Gregor had always been certain there was a document detailing what should happen if the Emperor did something insane enough to prove that the Vorbarra legacy had caught up with him. Marrying a Komarran had clearly not made the cut: that was _strategic_. He didn't think installing Serg on the throne would fall into the same category.

"So," he added with no great hope, "we could proceed to my office now, and start drawing up the paperwork."

Serg smirked. "And will you give your name's word, your seal of honor, on that promise, here and now?"

Everything in Gregor shouted _No!_ And then, _yes, why not?_ It would be one sentence, a brief declaration, easy enough, despite being a betrayal of everything he'd been brought up to believe. He could say it, if he truly needed to.

Cavilo had never once asked him, during those six days, to swear by his name that he'd make her Empress; either she hadn't done her homework, which was possible considering that the whole plan was a vast improvisation, or she hadn't wanted his refusal to sully the illusion, or it simply hadn't occurred to her that his name's word meant anything. She'd had the word of his body, after all, as far as that went: not, much as Gregor would have liked to believe the contrary, very far at all. If Serg had asked him to kiss Ekaterin as proof of their love affair, he could have managed to fake passion; his appreciation of her was mostly affectionate and partly aesthetic, never carnal, but that was a bridge that could be crossed. He'd crossed it, enthusiastically, with Cavilo; he could probably do it again despite his oath to Laisa. A stage romance. But to utter that line -- _by my word as Vorbarra_ \-- to lend his tongue instead to that sort of oath-breaking -- he couldn't do it. At least not to save his own life, or even Ekaterin's. And Serg would not have believed him anyway, if he had.

"No," he said. "But I'll give you my word as your father."

Serg lowered the knife from Ekaterin's neck, sheathed it, and burst out laughing. "Sit down, Da," he said. "Make yourself comfortable. I think you're going to be here a long time."

He sat the three of them in chairs and bound them, feet to the chair legs, hands behind. Ekaterin and Gregor submitted silently; Cavilo, left till last and taken by surprise, protested with hissing, spitting rage, but her strength was insufficient to resist. Gregor wondered if he'd have tried to stop Serg, had he been free, or helped him hold her down.

"So," Serg said to Gregor, as if nothing had intervened, "it's not very real to you either, is it? I've had the advantage of knowing a long time -- practically all my life." He spoke as though it had been forever, which brought home to Gregor again how young he was. "But still. Barrayar. My first time here."

"It's certainly been an eventful visit," Gregor said. "So far."

Serg grinned. "I don't really have to do much more. Just emerge when I'm given the word. With you as a live hostage, preferably. I hadn't entirely reckoned on Lady Vorkosigan; I suppose what happens to her is up to circumstance."

"So your colleagues are clearing the way for your succession?" _Oh, Laisa. My children..._

"Colleagues. You make it sound as though we worked together... in some office. They're a little bigger than that. I'll be ruling in their name. For now."

"The Cetagandans?" Gregor guessed.

Serg sighed. "I'd hoped to surprise you, but _she_ " -- he nodded at Cavilo -- "gave it away. They've been planning this since I was born."

"We do have considerable space forces, you know," Ekaterin said. "How will they--"

"Of course we know that!" said Serg; Gregor wondered if it was the Imperial we. "It's all" -- he waved a lordly hand -- "in the plan."

"So you didn't escape to Earth?" Gregor said. "You were sent?"

"It was all very carefully" -- Serg considered his words -- "engineered. A grand performance, the sort _she_ likes putting together. Lights and sound and shadowy armies clashing at night. I'm a good actor, you know. I'll play the role well. Better than you."

"I didn't know, Gregor," said Cavilo, subdued now. "I thought you might... he ought to be your heir. By rights. A countship at least. But he told me he'd run away."

"Of course I did," said Serg. "It was part of the _plan_. I needed her and the troupe; I couldn't just walk in--"

"Why not?" said Gregor. "There's precedent for... unexpected relatives, around here. If you'd conducted yourself with reason, I would probably have given you that countship. Or at least a job. You could have plotted from within the system. Maybe you wouldn't have wanted to, any longer." Serg looked surprised, but said nothing. "Or did you still want to be Empress?" Gregor went on, turning to Cavilo.

"She just wanted to tell me what to do. If I'd had time to take over the Players... but it was her stupid idea to go to Sergyar, the bitch."

"Don't you call your mother that." It was Ekaterin speaking, not Cavilo. Gregor lifted his eyebrows at her, and she did the same back: his mirror. "I can call her that if I want," she added. "But it's not a word you use about your--"

"She's not my mother!" said Serg.

Cavilo let out a cry of protest, but Ekaterin spoke over her. "Wait just a minute. Then who is? Because he" -- she nodded at Gregor -- "is certainly your father, unless someone's been doing sophisticated facial modifications. And the timing fits. From what I've been told."

"I have not omitted any possible mothers from my account, no," Gregor said, amused despite himself. "I did, if you recall, put forward the possibility that this woman was not actually impregnated due to my--"

"I took them a genetic sample!" Cavilo said. "Several; you were remarkably careless. And an embryo I had my surgeon make. That's you," she told Serg. "I'm sure of it. Look at his nose; isn't it just like mine? And the scroll of his ear. Not to mention his acting talent." She looked at Gregor in appeal. "They were going to strip me raw," she said, "as soon as they caught me. The Emperor of Barrayar's frozen sperm, that seemed reasonable payment to all of us."

"I doubt it. That's not their style," Gregor told her.

"That's what _he_ said. Aral Vorkosigan. I was trying to warn him. I'd figured out by then what Serg was up to... trying to get to Barrayar... he's mad, you know, truly--"

"Shut up!" hissed Serg. "One more word and--"

Gregor cleared his throat. "So you say she's not your mother," he said to Serg. "Am I your father?"

"Do you want to be, Da?" It was a callous, smirking response, but again Gregor sensed some genuine need behind it. Unless the need was all his, reflected upon this inexplicable, horribly familiar surface. "In a sense you are," Serg went on. "Not the traditional one. I was a careful construct. Your genes for appearance, except for a few touches to be clear I'm not a clone. The rest are from the Emperor and Empress of Cetaganda." He let them absorb that for a second, and then added, "You see that I am the ideal person to lead the Cetagandan-occupied former Barrayaran Empire."

"You're not the ideal person to lead an ox cart full of manure," spat Cavilo; it was a strangely Barrayaran-style epithet, but of course she'd lived on Earth, ancestral home of oxen and epithets both. "Or to pull it either. Or to shit in it. You little bastard. Oh, excuse me. Little Imperial construct. Which Emperor's asshole do you have, you little son of a--"

"Shut up!" Serg lunged toward her and slapped her hard across the face. She looked up again, bleeding from the mouth, small and piteous and defiant, and Gregor, unable to help his response, struggled furiously against his bonds. Serg hit her again and again, punching now, while Gregor rocked his chair ineffectually across the floor, shouting at his son to stop. Serg paused, turned; Cavilo, through broken teeth, grated one last curse. Serg yelled with fury, drew his knife and buried it in her throat.

He pushed the chair over as he withdrew, so Gregor couldn't see Cavilo clearly, but he had no doubt that she was dead. Shocked, frozen, unable to breathe -- it was one thing to know someone was capable of murder, and another to watch him do it, especially when he was... _still my son, yes_ \-- he could feel nothing for a long moment, and then it was fear, not so much for himself as for Ekaterin. _Prudence, milady_ , he urged her. _Survival._

"And are you proud of yourself?" she said, so indignant he almost laughed, along with almost screaming. "That was the most... oh! Gregor, I'm betting they pulled more than your cheekbones out of that genetic sample. Looks like he's got some of his name-giver's personality quirks. These things skip a generation."

"Shut up!" Serg shot at her, but didn't repeat his violent exhibition. "What does she mean?" he asked, turning to Gregor. His voice was shaking.

"My father," Gregor said, "whose name was also Serg, enjoyed... pulling the wings off flies, and other similar activities. He was not, from what I've heard, inclined to murderous frenzies. His murders were very slow and calculated. But the Cetagandans don't make... purposeful mistakes, when it comes to genetics. If they made you like this, it was for a reason. Are you sure they mean you to become Emperor?"

"Yes." Not an entirely confident syllable.

"Then God help Barrayar. I'm just saying... because we had another similar plot, Komarran in origin, in which the lead player -- he's Ekaterin's brother-in-law, now -- was a dupe of his handlers, never meant to succeed, only to cause chaos to the benefit of those left behind on Komarr. So... watch your step. When is that signal of yours due to arrive?"

"Soon." Serg was still holding the knife; he lifted his left hand, staring at the blood, staining in splashes up to his elbow. The hand trembled.

"Are you frightened?" said Gregor. _Did you have a nightmare?_ he whispered to his children when they woke, crying. _It's over now. It's not real. I'm here._

"No." But he was; Gregor knew what it looked like.

"There's a story," he said -- quiet, calm, fatherly tones, as best he could manage -- "that someone I loved used to tell me. About a boy who was born not able to feel fear; they'd gene-cleaned it right out of him, I suppose. When he got old enough, he told his mother he was going out into the world, to find out what fear was. Along the road, he met a band of horrible-looking travelers: one eye, three arms, lumpy in the head, that sort of thing. But they didn't scare him, and he went on." Gregor hadn't thought of the story in years; at the time, he hadn't recognized Cordelia's manipulations, but they were obvious now. Don't be afraid of mutants; all right. Go on.

"Next he had to cross a swamp by way of a narrow bridge, and all the way, hands rose out of the mist to grab at him, telling him he was a lovely child, who must join them now, under the water." Flatterers: if only he'd listened to that one. "But he was not afraid. Then he came to a graveyard full of whispering spirits, and a hanged man who cried out to him; he climbed up the gibbet and took the man down, and went away whistling." Death? The law? Family ghosts, certainly. "The boy went on, and after a while he came to a city, where all the people were gathered in the town square. He asked what was happening, and they told him that the king had just died without an heir, and that doves would be released to choose the next king. And while he stood, watching, the doves flew up in the air, and straight to him, and landed on his shoulders, and when they seated him on the throne and bowed down to him, then, finally, he knew--"

"Stop," said Serg.

"I think I interrupted at the same point," Gregor said. "The message became very clear. I've been terrified most of my life. Hasn't prevented me from doing my job, somehow."

Serg clutched his head, the knife still in one hand. "I'm not afraid," he said. "I'll... be fine. Just... dizzy. Something... there must be food here..." He stepped toward a cupboard in the corner; Cavilo's body blocked the way. He flinched.

"I have some food in my pocket," Ekaterin said. "But I can't get at it unless you untie me." Serg gave her an oh-so-obvious look, and she added, haughtily, "I would rather that you not touch me. And it's not as though I can hurt you."

He shrugged, and, moving behind her, slashed through the bonds on her wrists with one stroke of the knife, leaving her feet strapped. She put her hand into her pocket and brought up a rather squashed napkin. "Our cook is renowned," she said. "You might want to steal her, when you're Emperor."

"You taste first," Serg said, showing a proper degree of suspicion. "This one." He picked out one of the treats and shoved it at Ekaterin. She put it daintily between her lips, chewed and swallowed.

"Mm," she said. Serg grabbed the napkin and gulped down the others, not giving Ma Kosti nearly the attention she deserved.

"That's better," he said, looking much recovered. "I shouldn't have to wait very much longer. When they come to fetch me, we'll take both of you hostage. Two are better than one. Three... was too many. I'm sorry that I had to... but she was..." He stopped, blinked. "It's getting... my eyes are..." He rubbed at them. "Am I _crying?_ "

"No," said Ekaterin. "You ate chuffweed. In the pastry. It has nervous system effects. Your stomach will be very painful soon, too." He clutched at his midsection. Ekaterin bent down to release her ankles, continuing to speak in cool tones. "The amount you ate is not fatal, but it will make it difficult for you to move around and speak until it wears off in a few hours, or you find an antidote. Which I'm sure you don't have in that cupboard. Any reputable pharmacy, though." He bent over, choking; Ekaterin got up, looking shaky on her feet, and came over to Gregor to undo his bonds. "I really think you'd be best off sitting quietly in the corner until ImpSec arrives," she told Serg.

"Or," said Gregor, standing up, "I could take the knife away from you, and slit your unworthy throat."

"You wouldn't," gasped Serg.

"Because I'm your father? Perhaps. But there are precedents." He moved toward Serg, entirely uncertain what he meant to do; the boy stumbled toward the access panel, and fell to the floor at Gregor's feet. Gregor took the knife out of his hand and stood staring at it.

"Come, sit beside me on this sand," Serg pronounced, "and kiss my cheeks, and wash them with thy tears." He looked up at Gregor with a curious expression, his eyes not quite focused but his mouth forming the syllables with precision and feeling; he must, indeed, have been a good actor. "And say, my son! For numbered are my sands of life, and swift--"

"No," said Gregor. "No. I did want you. To be real. To be what I was looking for. But it was never there. You... broke that, before we'd even got started. Go," he said, harshly. "Pick yourself up and go. I'm giving you a chance, against my better judgment. Go!"

Serg gave Gregor a look that might have been resentful gratitude, or just nausea, and fumbled his way out into the sewers.

Gregor leaned on the wall for a moment, just breathing, then stuck the knife in his belt and made his way to the corner where Cavilo lay, still bound to her chair, small and fragile and silent. He checked her pulse, because he felt he ought to; she was dead. Kneeling beside her, avoiding the blood, he kissed her on the lips. "I'm sorry," he said, and then he went to Ekaterin.

"Please tell me he has a chance," he said, taking her by the arms, as much to hold himself up as her.

She shook her head. "Not much. He might just make it, if he's resourceful enough. I don't think so."

"Very well. Thank you. For everything. And how did you manage..."

"I had the pastries, and the piece of chuffweed I'd pulled up. While we were walking, I put my hand in my pocket -- the hand that wasn't holding yours -- and fiddled around till I'd pushed the one into the other. He's a teenage boy; I figured at some point he'd get hungry. I just didn't think... it would be like this. I'm so sorry."

"He's also a paranoid maniac," said Gregor, unable to respond to sympathy. "Didn't you realize he'd make you his taster? Did you know which one it was in?"

She shrugged. "No. I took my chance; I won. It's what we do, right?"

"Yes, milady. It's what we do." He wanted to kiss her, or perhaps salute her. Or put his face on her shoulder and cry.

"Do you think we should" -- she gestured at the door -- "try to find our way out?"

"We could. We could also stay here. I guarantee ImpSec will get to us eventually." Gregor paused. "Serg might come back."

"I don't think so. I think he's on the run. So to speak. But, Gregor... what's going on up there? The Cetagandans..."

Gregor gave her a skeptical look. "I'm hoping he made it all up. Or imagined it. If not, why have We spent all this money on Our military, if they can't handle one little invasion and insurrection? If you don't mind staying here with that" -- he nodded at Cavilo's corpse -- "then I for one don't feel like moving. They'll rescue us. Soon enough."

"All right." They went to the farthest corner from Cavilo, and settled down against the wall. It was cold; Gregor held her in his arms. "When they come," she said after a minute, "Miles will be with them. I bet."

"I would not expect otherwise."

"So... are you still holding me to my oath?"

"Oh. Um. Yes, if you don't mind. If he recognizes her" -- nodding at Cavilo again -- "all bets are off, but if not... let's see what happens, hm? We were captured by Cetagandan partisans; one murdered another and fled. After being cleverly poisoned," he added. "I would like as few people as possible to know about Serg. Miles will be one of those people, along the way, but... not yet. All right? He's had secrets from you before, I guarantee it."

"He's an Imperial Auditor. I'm--"

"Vor. We all serve."

"Yes, Sire."

She was stiff in his arms for a moment longer, but then relaxed, and he pulled her tighter against him. It would be a good distraction for Miles to see them snuggling, and perhaps he could get the body covered or removed before Miles was finished demonstrating that his wife was really his. And then Gregor could get back to his own wife. But before that happened -- and he prayed it happened soon and with no complications -- it was good to have someone warm and alive to hold.

"Ekaterin," he said, nuzzling up against her ear.

"Mm?"

"Why haven't you ever let _me_ steal your cook?"

She laughed; he could feel the laughter in his own body, if not in his heart. They would survive; they would go on. He wished he didn't have to.


	3. Chapter 3

The wind was chill in Vorbarr Sultana, two weeks after the kidnapping. Aral hugged his collar up against his neck; just from the groundcar to the Residence entrance seemed an unreasonably long way to fight the cold. "Soft," he muttered to Cordelia. "I survived Kyril Island. Feels like a long time ago."

"It was a long time ago," she said. "But from what I hear you were drunk all the time. I'm surprised you remember anything."

"Could use a drink now."

"You know what the doctor told you. Yes, the Emperor is expecting us," she said brightly to the men at the door; as if anyone would deny her access. A secretary led them through the familiar corridors to Gregor's office, and was dismissed.

"Aral. Cordelia. Thank you." They embraced Gregor, and then Laisa, and were given comfortable chairs; Aral thought he might actually get out of his again without too much effort. "I told you," Gregor said, "that you didn't need to come all this way. We could have--" He gestured to the comconsole. "Especially when you're not well."

"Nonsense," said Cordelia. "Aral is fine now" -- _denial, love, denial; but it hardly matters_ \-- "and... well, Miles thinks we're here to spend extra time with the children before Taura is born. You still haven't told him?"

"He should know. Just... it gets harder as time passes. I thought it wouldn't."

"So, what, are you going to put a hood over the boy's face when he's executed?" Aral asked. Cordelia started to shush him, and he snapped, "No. Honest question. It's reasonably traditional; you can get away with it. Conceal the resemblance. Now, if you were going to let him starve in the Great Square, that would be risking something, but I suppose we don't do that anymore. And he's not Vor."

Gregor was silent, and after a moment Laisa said, "Gregor was hoping that... perhaps he wouldn't need to be executed."

" _What?_ "

"There are alternative punishments," Laisa said. "Or, since he's clearly disturbed, treatments. I can tell you that another execution will not play well on Komarr. Especially if his age is revealed."

"It's Barrayaran law," said Aral. "It may not be what Komarrans do, or what Betans do, but here, dammit, if someone kidnaps the Emperor, murders four people, and attempts treason even if half of it is a fantasy, then we execute him." He didn't know why he was so angry... well, no. He did. "I had to execute a boy for dueling once, if you recall. And he didn't even kill anyone on purpose."

"Yes," said Cordelia quietly, "and that turned out so well."

"Serg doesn't have a brother to take revenge for him," said Aral. "You got all the Cetagandan agents, yes? And the collaborators?"

"Yes, we think so," said Gregor. "There weren't very many of them. The agents were all renegades, as far as we can prove, and their government is denying everything."

"Hmph. And what's ImpSec up to?"

"Besides firing half my security detail for something that was my fault? Investigating. But the trail is cold." Gregor shivered a little; the room was perfectly warm. "The part that matters."

"So we're not likely to have another Cetagandan War over this?" Cordelia asked.

"No, I shouldn't think so," said Gregor. "Both sides are keeping their diplomats very busy, and a formal declaration of hostility is unlikely. But as far as the plot goes, we're not likely to get much solid information. How close we came to real danger, who duped whom... is a little hard to tell. Serg was caught in the middle. Lost, I think. Confused."

"He murdered four people," repeated Aral. "Three were Barrayaran subjects, and the fourth was..."

"His mother," Gregor said. "Genetic tests on... her remains, proved it: he's hers and mine. If the Cetagandans fiddled, they did it with the embryo she provided. He's my son, in the full sense of most people's law. And don't you dare deny it," he told Aral and Cordelia, suddenly fierce. "Or I will throw Mark so hard in your face--"

"Please don't," said Cordelia, "he's quite a handful. You'll hurt yourself. Yes, Gregor, he is your son, even though you didn't make him on purpose. Even though his making was done without your knowledge or authority."

"But still..." he began, and then turned to Laisa, putting a hand on hers as if asking a question. She nodded. "Before Laisa and I were married," Gregor said, "we agreed that all of our children would be born out of replicators. No question. The risks were so much less. And I mean all the risks. But," he went on, "I assume, and you two could tell me, that there is something about making love, knowing that you could, and want to, create a child."

"Yes," said Cordelia. "It was... quite wonderful." She took Aral's hand and squeezed it.

"So," said Gregor, "we did the next best thing, which was to have a symbolic, er, session, each time we started a new baby. Which doesn't, of course, eliminate the option of nonsymbolic--"

"Yes, except with four children soon, it's going to get a little--" began Laisa.

"We'll manage," said Gregor. "Anyway. It was hardly the same, with Cavilo, but... not knowing you're going to create a child, it's still... something. Of significance. If that makes any sense."

"You mean," said Cordelia, "that you feel responsible, because you could have conceived a child with her, even though she was protecting herself from that outcome and only thought she might take advantage of the possibility later?"

"She did secure my sperm," said Gregor.

"A very loving gesture," said Laisa, dryly. "If she hadn't been gloating that her son could be Emperor, it might have been rather sweet."

"Isn't that what you--" Gregor began.

"I said, my son will be Emperor!... oh, shit. And oh dear, poor Xav. I suppose we'd better start warning him now to beware of... the list of potential plots is endless."

"We could get Cordelia to tell him stories," said Gregor; if it was a joke, he didn't smile.

"And said sperm," said Aral, wishing they didn't have to discuss this, "was in fact delivered to the Cetagandans?"

"I... really have no idea what was truth in all that, and what was lies. Lies within lies... no. Lies like five-space math, all looped and twisted, maybe wormholing into truth." Gregor lifted his left hand, started to demonstrate, then broke it off and shrugged. "I really don't care. And the Cetagandans can do what they like with any bits of me they have."

Aral had seen Gregor express a range of moods over the years, from delirious happiness to deep depression; the expressions didn't vary that much to the casual observer, but the seasoned eye could tell one from another without much effort. This was not blithe but rationally unconcerned Gregor; this was dangerously apathetic Gregor. Whether the Cetagandans' possession of his genetic material was important was nearly beside the point. What mattered was whether he cared about anything, beyond the central topic of their discussion.

"Well," said Aral, "I'm sorrier about the three Barrayaran students, but I was sorry to hear about Cavilo too. I rather liked her." The two women gave him similar looks of disbelief; Gregor just nodded. "She was a good opponent. And she knew how to put on a show." It was a sufficient epitaph; he went on, hating what was coming. "So, to get back to your son. The criminal one. Do we agree that--"

"No. Wait," said Gregor, with returning animation. "Aral, listen. When you executed Carl Vorhalas--"

"Damn Carl Vorhalas!" said Aral. "Forget him. And, if you will, remember Miles. You almost had my son executed for treason, and he was your friend and your foster-brother. You were not about to make an exception for him."

"You don't know that," said Gregor quietly.

"And if you had, should I have respected you for it? Gone on my knees and thanked you that you'd taken our laws and... snapped them, like the sword of some hated enemy? Just because you loved him? Would have done wonders for all our future careers, belike."

"Swords have weak points, sometimes," said Gregor. "They need to be tried, maybe broken. To show whether they're worth keeping." Aral glared at him, his anger simmering. "And," Gregor went on, "barely anyone knows that Serg is my son. Making an exception for him isn't going to set off alarms. Diplomatically, it would make considerable sense to extradite him to Cetaganda."

"Where they'd make mincemeat of him," said Aral callously. "But he'd be off your hands."

"Or we could say we're doing that, and in reality send him to Beta Colony, for therapy."

"Oh, and that's not going to start a war? With the Cetagandans, I mean, though Beta wouldn't be too thrilled with us either."

"Therapists" -- Gregor stole a look at Cordelia -- "want to help people. He could be helped, Aral. He's not... irreparably damaged."

"Why don't you just lay your hands on him, then, and hope he's miraculously cured? Treason, treated with therapy, hmph. Would you have done that with Miles?"

"That was twenty years ago. Things change."

"Not that much."

Aral pushed himself out of his chair, successfully rose to his feet, and then creaked down on his knees in front of his Emperor. "Sire," he said: furious disappointment subsumed in humility, bowing his head as he and his ancestors had bowed for generations. "He killed four people. He might have killed my daughter-in-law, and he might have killed you. And you are as a son to me." He looked up, straight into Gregor's eyes; he thought his heart might crack. "If you don't have the guts to execute him, send him to Cetaganda and let them do it for you. But, I pray you, in consideration of my long faithful service to the Empire, do not let him loose, on any planet from which he could ever escape. I'd say over my dead body, but by the time he got out of Betan therapy that would be redundant. My grandchildren will still be alive, though." He used the edge of the desk to lever himself up, and stood, bracing his shoulders back. "Is that all you wanted?"

"Yes. We thank you," said Gregor. Very cold, very Imperial.

"Then we'll be going." Aral offered Cordelia his arm.

She gave him a look -- _you're not going to leave it there, are you?_ \-- and turned to Laisa. "We'll see you at dinner next week?" she asked.

"Certainly. Count and Countess Vorbarra are pleased to attend." Laisa leaned toward Gregor, touching him on the hand. He gave them a vague salute as they turned to leave.

They were at the door when he spoke, in that deathly still voice that was Gregor at his blackest. "I should have cut his throat when I had the chance."

"Yes," said Aral. "You should have." And they went out.

The wind was colder still, on the short walk back to the waiting groundcar. Aral thought he might never be warm again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank avanti_90 for the original prompt that inspired "Single Combat" and by extension this work. Another prompt slipped in there in one paragraph in chapter two, so thanks for that too.
> 
> "Single Combat" used quotes and plot elements from Matthew Arnold's poem "Sohrab and Rustum" (based on a Persian epic). Serg quotes it in this story as well. I had written the first draft of this story and was searching madly for a title in that same poem, when I wandered out of it and into the next one in the book, "The Sick King in Bokhara," and lo, found myself in a similar tale to the one I was telling, in which a king is determined to protect, and later to bury, a criminal (although that man really didn't deserve his punishment except under a strict interpretation of the law). The most relevant lines belong to the wise old vizier (and what is Aral if not a vizier?) who says:
> 
> Nay, were he thine own mother's son,  
> Still, thou art king, and the law stands.  
> It were not meet the balance swerved,  
> The sword were broken in thy hands.
> 
> They did not, of course, have Betan therapy in Bokhara.
> 
> To make things easier here on AO3, I turned the two stories into a series. That title comes out of "Sohrab and Rustum" in which another wise old advisor says: "... but who can keep the lion's cub from ravening, and who govern Rustum's son?" So, it's now the Lion's Cub Series, or rather, the Lion's Cub Series series, since I didn't quite get the naming conventions right, oh well.
> 
> Assigning a series name does not mean there will be more of the series! Those of you who are Lord Peter Wimsey fans can imagine Gregor creeping into Laisa's corner to hide, huddling his head against her breast so that he might not hear eight o'clock strike (except the bloody Barrayarans would make him watch, wouldn't they). Alternatively, I suppose he could run off with Serg and start a mercenary company. [ETA: Oh, damn, I'm writing it. The _Busman's Honeymoon_ bit, I mean, not Vorbarra and Son Daring Rescues Our Specialty Except When We Kill People.]
> 
> I would also like to note for the record that, yes, it was on purpose that I started three fics in a row (including the unrelated "Questions") with "The sun" - they all have to do with sons...? Or maybe I just have to amuse myself somehow.
> 
> I hope the plot sorta kinda makes sense, but if you can figure out what in all the five-space math of lies really happened you are doing better than me.


End file.
